Yesterday I spoke of four sutras of Yoga. Today I would like to speak with you on the fifth sutra. Yoga’s fifth sutra is: That which is in the atom is also in the vast. That which is in the tiniest is also in the immensity. What is most subtle in the subtle is present in the greatest of the great. What is in the drop is in the ocean. Yoga has proclaimed this from the very beginning, but science has only just now begun to support it. No one had imagined that within the atom such energy, such power could be found, that so much would be hidden in the infinitesimal, that in a seeming nothing the explosion of the all could take place. The splitting of the atom has rendered scientific this insight of Yoga. The atom cannot even be seen by the naked eye; yet in that which is unseen a vast power is stored. It can explode. The atom of the Atman within a person cannot be seen either, but in it an immense energy lies concealed and the explosion of the Paramatma can happen. Yoga’s declaration—that the vastest is present in the tiniest, that in every particle the divine is present—has precisely this meaning. Why did Yoga lay such emphasis on this sutra? Firstly, because it is true. And secondly, because once you remember that the ultimate is hidden in the atom, a path opens for you to remember your own soul-force. There is no reason for anyone to feel small. There is no reason even for the smallest to feel small. And the contrary also must be understood: the greatest has no reason to be puffed up with ego, for what he has, the most minute also has. If the ocean becomes egoistic it is mad, because what the ocean has, a tiny drop also has. The least has no reason to feel inferior; the greatest has no reason to be filled with pride. Neither inferiority nor superiority has any meaning. From this sutra, this is the inevitable conclusion. Man wastes his life in only two fixations. Either he is afflicted by a sense of inferiority—an inferiority complex. Alfred Adler has now put this phrase on everyone’s tongue: inferiority complex. Either a person suffers from inferiority and continually feels, “I am nothing, a mere nothing.” As you must have heard Omar Khayyam’s famous line: dust unto dust. Dust returns to dust—there is nothing more. If inferiority seizes a person, a deep inner disease takes hold. If someone begins to live as though nothing is, life itself becomes almost impossible—he dies while still alive. Very few are alive until the day they die; most die long before. Often it happens they are buried at seventy, but death has come much earlier. Between dying and being buried there is a gap of thirty, forty, even fifty years. The day inferiority grips you within… and if, seeing this vast existence all around, you allow yourself to compare, inferiority will seize you. What, after all, is man’s situation? Nothing at all. A straw upon the waves of the sea. No direction, no strength. If such inferiority takes hold of the mind, life turns lifeless while still alive—ashes. The ember goes dim. And when one’s own inner flame goes out, then what will you do with the light of the suns? It may be there, but it has no meaning for you. It is essential to remember that the vast is within the person. It is essential to remember that the infinite is within the person. It is essential to remember that Paramatma is within the person—so that one does not fall into inferiority. And the strange thing is, to erase inferiority people fall into fantasies of superiority—the superiority complex! To repress the feeling of inferiority one begins to take measures. Feeling inferior within, one starts accumulating wealth—to show the world and convince oneself: “No, I am not nothing; I am much.” The inferiority complex makes one run; one climbs thrones so that standing upon them one can announce, “Who says I am nothing? I am someone!” Inferiority turns into a race for superiority. Hence those who are madly running to be superior are the very ones afflicted within by inferiority. Adler has said astonishing things—meaningful things. He said, those who often come first in the race are the ones who limped in childhood. Those who become very skilled in music are often the ones who heard a little less in childhood. Those who become presidents and prime ministers are frequently the very ones who had to sit on the back benches at school. That wound of inferiority—they set out to prove to the world, “We are something—we shall show you!” So if a politician is afflicted with inferiority, do not be surprised. A worm gnaws within, whispering, “I am nothing.” It hurts the mind, makes one restless, drives one on. When Lenin sat on a chair his feet did not reach the floor. The upper part of his body was big and his legs were short; ordinarily, seated, his feet would not touch the ground. Hitler was a man of very ordinary intelligence, and in the army a common soldier of ordinary rank—thrown out even from there as unfit and incompetent. Stalin was a cobbler’s son, and Lincoln too was a cobbler’s son. If we peep behind the lives of the world’s politicians, we shall be amazed. Somewhere in childhood an inferiority wound became their race. They ran neurotically; they could not rest until they had climbed some peak. Having climbed, they showed the world, “We are something,” but they showed nothing to themselves. That is why all positions, all wealth, all fame, finally prove futile. When one is standing upon a throne, he finds it is still the same “I” that is standing. The throne has been attained, but I am still I—and the worm of inferiority keeps eating. Hence even the greatest office brings no fulfillment; the race for a greater office continues. When someone said to Alexander, “I have heard you will conquer the whole world. But have you ever thought—when you have conquered the world, then what will you do? For there is only one world!”—I have heard that Alexander became very sad and said, “This I never thought. You speak rightly: if I conquer the whole world, then what will I do? Where is another world?” For even after conquering the world, there is no escape from the inferiority that grips the mind. Nor would a second world help. The inferiority complex becomes inverted—standing on its head—and turns into the superiority complex. So when you see a man strutting stiffly down the road, have compassion—he is afflicted with inferiority. If someone, slightly jostled, erupts, “Don’t you know who I am?”—poor fellow, he suffers from inferiority. The one who gets enraged over trifles, whose ego is bruised over the smallest things, who, if people laugh on the street, imagines they are laughing at him—know that he is afflicted by inferiority. This pain throws him into the mad race to be superior. Inferiority is a disease; superiority is the grand disease taken to suppress the first. And many times the medicine proves more dangerous than the illness; suppressed illnesses become even more dangerous. Yoga therefore reminds you of a second thing. It says: even if Paramatma is somewhere, let Him not fall into ego either, “I am something,” for what He has, a grain of dust also has. In one direction, therefore, a dust mote need not be seized by inferiority; and in the other direction, let not Paramatma be seized by superiority. Only one who is free of both inferiority and superiority attains equanimity. This declaration of Yoga is an effort to free man of his deep psychological disease. It is not merely an effort to remove a mental illness; it is also the truth. The truth is this: neither has the small any cause to weep, nor has the great any cause to strut. Here what appears very big and what appears very small—each carries the same wealth. Jesus tells a small story. One day a very rich man hired some laborers for his garden in the morning. At noon some more came to him and said, “Give us work too.” He set them to work as well. As the afternoon waned, others came, “Give us work.” He hired them too. And when evening was almost upon them, even then some laborers came, and he set them also to work. When the sun had set and the day’s wages were distributed, he gave everyone the same wage. Those who had come in the morning stood there angry. They said, “This is injustice! We have worked since morning. Some came at noon, some after noon, and some came just when we had finished the work. To all, the same wage—this is injustice!” The rich man said, “What I have given you—was it less than your work?” They said, “No, for our work it is much.” “Then,” said the rich man, “know this: In the kingdom of God none is ahead and none is behind, all are equal.” This is what Yoga is saying. It says that a dust grain has no cause to be miserable, and even Paramatma has no cause to be filled with ego. In this play of life none is ahead, none behind; none great, none small. Yoga shows the vast in the minute and the minute in the vast. It shows the ocean in the drop and the drop in the ocean. And this is the truth, as I said—because science now speaks of astonishing things. When Rutherford first broke open the family of the atom, a very strange fact came to light: even the least of atoms is exactly like the solar systems of great suns. In an atom—the smallest atom—there is a nucleus at the center, and whirling around it is an electron. That electron circles the nucleus. Its motion is just like the motion of the earth, Mars, Jupiter and the planets around the sun. This tiny atom moves in the same way. And the energy hidden in its nucleus is of the same quality as the energy of the sun. As if, in a very small form, a solar family is sitting inside the atom. The difference is only of quantity; there is no difference of quality. Thus science has begun to say what Yoga long ago declared—we all remember the old saying: in the egg is the Brahmand. Scientists like Rutherford and his companions say: the macrocosm in the microcosm. That vast cosmos is wholly present within the minute microcosm. The cosmos, the Brahmand, resides in the tiny egg—so small it cannot be seen; it is only inferred, known only by inference that it exists, that it spins. In something so small, all that appears so immense is present as a tiny picture, a small print. Understand it like this: the only difference is of magnitude. It is as when we say, the difference between two and four is the same as between twenty and forty. Between two hundred and four hundred the same difference; between twenty million and forty million the same difference. The proportion between two and four is the very same proportion between twenty million and forty million—the same proportion. The number is extended, but the ratio remains one. Exactly so: the proportion of the tiniest is the proportion of the vastest. Understanding this truth, remember two things: inferiority is madness; superiority is greater madness. Understand rightly: to think yourself nothing is madness; to think yourself very great is also madness. Yoga says: be what you are—and in that there is no place for being inferior or superior. Know only that you are; that is enough. Its other meaning is: do not weigh yourself at all. Don’t compare. There is no point. Comparison has no meaning. Whether two and four compare with twenty and forty or with twenty million and forty million, it makes no difference. In comparison there is no difference; both are equal. The proportion is equal; therefore comparison is futile. Hence Yoga says: do not compare the drop with the ocean, for the drop is a small ocean. And do not allow the ocean to become arrogant, for the ocean is only the drop spread out. The differences are only of expanse. Scientists now think that soon—perhaps before this century is over—we shall be able to contract and expand things. I have heard a story of the twenty-first century. A man alights at a station. He seems to have no luggage—only a matchbox placed near his bench. He calls out loudly, “Ten or twenty porters—come!” The fellow passengers say, “You don’t seem to have any luggage. What will you do with ten or twenty porters?” The man says, “My luggage is in that matchbox.” They say, “But why would twenty-five porters carry a matchbox? You carry it yourself!” The man opens the box and shows them—a car lies within the box. “A toy car,” they say, “for children. Pick it up yourself.” The man replies, “It is not a toy. The car has simply been condensed so that it can travel in a small space. We shall inflate it back.” Just as a balloon, when emptied, shrinks, and when filled with air, expands—scientists say iron too can be condensed, like cotton is pressed, and then expanded again. For everything is a congregation of atoms, and between atoms there is much space; that space can be altered, made smaller or larger. It may become possible to bring an entire train into a small matchbox and then expand it back again. When such a day comes—the experiments have been done; large-scale use will come in time—what meaning remains in comparing drop and ocean? The ocean can be compressed into a drop; the drop can be expanded into an ocean. The individual can be expanded into Paramatma; Paramatma can be condensed into the individual. In truth it is already so. Yoga has been saying for long that in things there is only a difference of expanse—no other difference. Big and small are only spreadings. Small and large are only spreadings. This is the fifth sutra—and it is important. Once this vision becomes clear, where will your inferiority stand? Where will your superiority stand? Where will you put them? For what will you carry that burden? You will fling it away and walk your path. Then, if someone struts, you will also laugh; if someone wags his tail in inferiority, you will also laugh. You will tell the tail-wagger, “Do not waste your effort.” You will tell the strutter, “You are needlessly torturing your body—no need.” Everything is abiding in its being. Everything is in its own nature. And every nature is incomparable; comparison has no meaning, no purpose. The sixth sutra of Yoga: It is not that the vast is only the giver and the small only the receiver, the beggar—no. Yoga’s sixth sutra is: giving and receiving, being a beggar and being an emperor—these dwell together in everyone. Here, the drop gives to the ocean and receives from the ocean. Here, the small gives to the vast, and the vast pours itself into the small. Here, giving and taking move in complete balance. A French scientist, Astron, has made a small instrument. And this instrument will prove revolutionary in the direction of Yoga. Astron’s device registers the energy that, moment to moment, is being absorbed from the infinite into a person—it reports how much is entering. Stand near that instrument and it shows how much power is coming into you from all around the cosmos—how much, from moment to moment. As if, continually, from infinite pathways, energy is showering upon you and entering through every pore. A delightful fact: when you are joyful, more energy enters; when you are unhappy, less enters. Astron’s instrument is precious. If you are sad, your doors are closed, contracted; less energy enters. You have known too that sorrow contracts. Hence a sorrowful man says, “Don’t speak to me. Don’t disturb me. Let me sit in a corner. Let me sleep. Let me die.” He shuts the door, darkens the room. The unhappy man contracts; the joyous man wants to share. If a joyous man is alone he feels restless—he runs to someone to give the news of his joy. We all know: when Buddha was unhappy he went into the forest; when he became blissful he returned to the village. When Mahavira was unhappy he went into the forest; when he became blissful he returned to the village. If someone asks why a sorrowful man goes to the forest—the answer is: he contracts, he fears meeting even people. The joyous man runs like a river’s current—he wants to distribute. Joy longs to be shared; joy is a sharing. Without sharing, joy is not satisfied. Sorrow wants to shrink. Therefore the sorrowful man is left alone. The joyous man finds many friends. The sorrowful man becomes an island. No one wishes to stand by him; nor does he wish anyone to stand by him. The joyous man becomes a continent. The sorrowful man becomes a small isle—closed within himself, isolated. Astron’s instrument shows that when a sorrowful man stands before it, less of the vast energy rains upon him; when a joyous man stands there, the vast begins to enter him from all sides, as if dams have broken and energy pours in from every direction. Yoga has been saying this a long time. It says: man too has doors and windows, and it is in your hands whether you keep them open for Paramatma—or closed. Leibniz was a great mathematician. He used to say: man is a monod. Monod—his word—means windowless; a house without windows and doors, closed. In this closed house, if you stretch out your hand to reach the other, you only touch your own walls. No one reaches another; everyone is closed within himself. Ordinarily a sorrowful man is a monod. It seems Leibniz must have been a sorrowful man—or those he knew and thought about were sorrowful. He perhaps never saw a yogi. For a yogi is the very opposite. If we were to coin a word against monod—there is none—we would have to say of a yogi: wall-less. Not merely windowed and doored—the whole house becomes a door. He even removes the walls and stands under the open sky. He breaks everything, so that the vast showers directly into him. Not only showers—it becomes joined. That is why Yoga emphasizes peace, bliss, silence, health. Astron’s instrument records not only that energy comes from outside—it also registers that moment to moment a response is going out from the person too; he is also releasing waves of energy. We are not only taking from Paramatma; we are also giving. Do not think that if Paramatma were not, you could still be. The reverse is also true: if you were not, Paramatma would also not be. Do not think the ocean only gives water to the clouds. Remember, the clouds return all the water to the ocean through the rivers. The ocean not only gives, it also receives. And the rivers not only receive, they also give. And the clouds not only take, they also give. Wherever there is taking, there is giving; and the two are equal. If this accounting is not right, mistakes happen and life becomes entangled. Therefore this sixth sutra of Yoga must be understood rightly. I would call that man a yogi who gives as much as he takes and keeps his accounts always settled. When Kabir could say at the moment of death, “As it was, so I have returned the cloth,” it has meaning. It means: all give-and-take is balanced. In my ledger nothing remains to pay, nothing remains to receive. The accounts are complete—I go. There is no indebtedness. It is not that I only took and did not give. We all take; we do not give, we do not share. And we are miserly even in taking—so in giving we will certainly be miserly. We are not open-hearted even in receiving; even there we keep the doors closed, unknowingly. And in giving—great difficulty. As I said, in joy one receives more; likewise in joy one gives more. In silence one receives more; in silence one gives more. In truth, when someone is utterly still and silent, he becomes like the echo-points in the mountains. You call out—and the mountain returns your voice. In an empty temple if you speak, it resounds and showers back upon you. In the empty, silent, meditative person whatever comes in is instantly responded to, and instantly echoing, returns. He is receiving and giving every moment. Between taking and giving there is no gap—like a wave that comes to the shore and immediately returns. The seashore always stands discharged—whatever it takes, it returns; whatsoever it receives, it gives back. As I said, Astron’s device even catches how much energy is falling around you and how many energy-waves are going outward from you. From the unhappy man very little goes outward; he stands clutching himself. From the anxious man very little goes outward; his power turns into a vortex within and begins to whirl—like whirlpools in water. The anxious man’s energy whirls within; he begins to think the same thoughts he has thought a thousand times. He chews the cud like a buffalo. A buffalo at least has a use for chewing: she eats in one go and then chews at leisure. The anxious man’s chewing is meaningless; it has no point. He thinks the same thing a hundred thousand times. What is the meaning? It means a diseased whirl has formed within him. It is beyond his control—he is obsessed. He even thinks, “What useless things I am thinking!”—but he goes on thinking. The energy stops going out; it only circles within. Such a man will become sick—in a spiritual sense, sick. Energy must come in, and it must go out. Inside, the balance must always be equal—give-and-take kept even. Then the accounts between the person and Paramatma become impossible to calculate—they become direct relations. Then it is not that the person is at the feet and God sits on the head. Not so. Then the person becomes Paramatma and Paramatma becomes the person. God becomes devotee and the devotee becomes God. The differences and distances disappear, for no account remains. God too cannot insist, because what He took has been given back—nothing is left pending. In sorrow, in restlessness, in anxiety, we neither give nor receive—we shrink and shut down, and the life-sources dry up. It is as if a well were to declare, “I shall no longer take water from the ocean; I am closing my springs,” and say to the people, “Do not lower your pitchers; I shall give no more.” Naturally, the one who stops taking will also stop giving, else he will soon dry up. And the one who stops giving will have to stop taking, otherwise he will burst—he cannot live. Both things must be done together. But remember: the well that says to the ocean, “I will not take,” and says to the villagers, “I will not give”—that well will only rot, become foul, stink. Its freshness will be lost, its life gone. We have all become such wells. In the vision of Yoga, we are putrefying wells; not living wells that take from the ocean and return to the ocean. Those who come with their pitchers are instruments of the ocean; they will carry it back to the ocean. And the well will become ever more fresh. It is Yoga’s wonder-filled assertion that the more one takes and the more one gives, the more alive he becomes—the more living. The one who takes in great measure and returns in equal measure becomes a center of life-energy. Such thrill, such dance, such condensed life will manifest in him. Krishna or Buddha or Mahavira or Christ—all those who seem filled with such immense life-energy—what is the reason? There is only one reason: no miserliness in receiving, no miserliness in giving. They receive on a vast scale and give on the same vast scale. Let me share a saying of Jesus. Jesus is among those few great yogis who walked the earth and left precious sutras. Jesus said: To him who saves, it shall be taken away; from him who has little, even that shall be taken away; and to him who has much, much shall be given. How contrary it sounds! We would protest: what injustice! Give to the one who has nothing. Why give to the one who has a lot? He can do without. But Jesus speaks of a deeper law. He is saying: the one who has more energy will be given more; the one who has little will be given little. The reason for little is precisely that the one who has little has his doors closed—that is why he has little. He has been miserly in giving; therefore he became exhausted in receiving and cannot take. I have heard a story: a villager read in a book that money attracts money. He had one rupee—he was poor. He thought, if money attracts money, I should go where money is, place my rupee there, and it will pull other rupees. He went to the city, to a moneylender’s shop. In the evening they were counting coins; he sat on the steps outside and began to jingle his rupee. For a long time he jingled, but no rupee came. He thought, perhaps the distance is too great. He threw his rupee upon the stacks of coins. He waited a while for his rupee to bring back others—but it did not. He said to the moneylender, “That book was wrong. Return my rupee.” The moneylender asked, “What book?” He said, “I read in a book that money attracts money.” The moneylender replied, “The book was right. The rupees have attracted your rupee. Go home now. Foolish man, will one rupee pull so many rupees? The book was right—the rupees pulled the rupee. Now go home, and never again say the book was wrong.” And the peasant never again said the book was wrong, because the book had proven right. Jesus speaks of this wondrous law: if you wish to be filled by the vast, become a giver of the vast. Share—and you will receive. Hoard—and it will be taken away. Save—and you will lose. Lose—and you will attain. The sutras sound inverted, but Yoga understands their reason. The reason is this: the more we empty ourselves, the more we make room for the vast to descend. The more the vast descends, the more we are filled with the joy of emptying, of pouring out—and we overflow. This sixth sutra says that here no one is only a giver and no one is only a receiver. Here none is a beggar alone and none an emperor alone. The one who wants to be an emperor alone will be in trouble; the one who wants to be a beggar alone will also be in trouble. Here the beggar and the emperor dwell in one and the same person. With one hand we must give, with the other we must take. And one hand will be able to take only as much as the other hand has given; the other hand will be able to give only as much as the first hand has received. If only this enters our understanding, the whole design of our life will change. Then we will not become grabbers of things. The more one clutches, the poorer he remains. The harder one clutches, the more wretched he becomes. One must learn the art of letting go, the art of giving—because the art of giving is the path of receiving. The emptier we are, the more capable and worthy we become to receive. Those who are empty will be filled. Those already full, holding, clutching, will remain empty. Lakes become full; mountains remain empty. Rain falls on the mountains too, but water does not stay there—they are already full of themselves. Lakes are empty; even if it does not rain upon them, no matter—the waters of the mountains flow into them and fill them. Lakes are empty; that is their secret. Remain empty in every way—and you will keep filling. And if you remain full of yourself in every way—you will keep emptying. These are two sides of the same coin. And if someone only keeps asking from God, then remember: there can be no relationship with Paramatma. We have no relationship because our temples have become prayer-halls where we only ask—we go as petitioners. Our prayers become false because they are the prayers of beggars who go only to demand. Remember: whenever we go only to ask, we are not giving value to Paramatma; we are giving value to what we want. A man came to me and said, “I did not believe in God before, but now I have begun to.” I asked, “Has some wish of yours been fulfilled?” He said, “How did you know?” I replied, “I do not see in your face any sign that you have journeyed even a little toward God. Surely some desire has been fulfilled.” He said, “Exactly. My son could not get a job. I prayed, and I even gave an ultimatum to God—that if within one month the job was not found, then know that I will never believe again. The job came. Now I believe firmly.” For this man, the boy’s job is more valuable than God. If his son loses his job, God will also become unemployed—so far as he is concerned. God too will be useless. He will kick the throne: “Get off—enough!” We go to God only with prayers—demands. Remember: the one who goes to God with an offering—only his prayers have meaning. The one who goes to give is the one who is joined. It is not that the giver does not receive—he receives immensely! But it is the giver who receives. From the one who begs, even what is near is taken away. Hence Jesus says: from him who has little, even that will be taken. As soon as someone is ready to give, he becomes worthy to receive—for to give, the doors of the heart must be opened. Through those very doors, the gift comes in. The one who fears giving must keep his doors shut—lest a thief come, lest a beggar demand. He must keep all windows and doors closed; from inside the house he prays, “Give me this, give me that.” The doors are shut; even if Paramatma comes to the threshold to give, he will not open—fearing it may be a beggar. And I have heard, Paramatma often plays this joke—He comes to the door in the guise of a beggar. Then the test becomes clear: is the man worthy to receive? He who is not yet capable of giving cannot be worthy of receiving. By His nature, God cannot ask you for money; by His nature, Paramatma cannot ask you for a house. For the house is not yours—you will not be tomorrow, and the house will be. And wealth is not you—it is in your hand today, in another’s hand tomorrow. Paramatma can ask only one thing—you. You alone are worthy to be asked for. Therefore Yoga says: the one who is ready to give himself becomes worthy of receiving all. If we can give ourselves, if we can let go, if we can say, “I consent—take me…” There is a small remembrance from the life of Vivekananda. When Vivekananda’s father died, the house fell into great poverty; food was so scarce that not even enough for both mother and son. So Vivekananda told his mother, “Today I am invited to a friend’s house; I shall eat there”—there was no invitation, and hardly any friend. He would wander the streets hungry and return—otherwise the mother would feed the son and herself go hungry. He would come home hungry, laughing, saying, “Today I ate splendidly—what dishes there were!” He would describe delicacies that were neither cooked anywhere nor eaten—having roamed hungry, just so that his mother might eat. Ramakrishna came to know of it and said, “What kind of madman are you? Why don’t you tell God? All will be arranged.” Vivekananda said, “To drag matters of eating and drinking before God would be a little too ordinary.” Even so, Ramakrishna said, “Go once and ask!” He sent Vivekananda into the temple. An hour passed, then an hour and a half—he came out dancing, delighted. Ramakrishna asked, “You got it, didn’t you? You asked, didn’t you?” Vivekananda said, “What?” Ramakrishna said, “I told you to place your request. Why are you so overjoyed?” Vivekananda replied, “I forgot.” It happened many times. Ramakrishna would send him in; Vivekananda would come out, and when asked, “What?” he would say, “What?” Ramakrishna said, “Are you mad? You go in with a firm vow.” Vivekananda said, “When I go in, the very thought that I should ask from God does not remain. A longing arises to give myself. And when I give myself, such joy, such joy—what hunger, what thirst, what beggar, what petitioner!” He could not ask; it was not possible. To this day no truly religious man has ever asked anything from God. Those who have asked should understand clearly—religion is not yet their concern. The religious have given. Jesus was crucified. The night before, in the garden of Gethsemane, his friends said, “Ask your Father—ask your God! Ask for what you want!” Jesus only smiled. Morning came—the time for the cross. His companions again and again urged him, “Why don’t you ask your God to stop this?” Jesus smiled. Then he was hung upon the cross; nails were driven through his hands. At one moment a cry escaped his lips—and he was offered the cross. Then this cross was no longer a cross—it became the coat of God. Now he could give himself. He was hung upon the cross. Hanging on the cross became a symbol—a wondrous symbol, that those who wish to reach God need the courage to hang their ego, their “I,” upon the cross entirely. But man is dishonest; there is no end to his dishonesty. Christian priests roam the earth with golden crosses dangling from their necks! One could ask: are crosses made of gold? And one could ask: is the neck hung upon a cross—or are crosses hung upon the neck? Man is such a deceiver. Jesus was hung upon a cross; his followers hang a small cross upon their necks! Even the cross can be turned into an ornament—man is that dishonest. He forgets the very message of giving, of dissolving. He remembers only the message of getting, getting. Yoga says: in the proportion you give, in that proportion you receive. And what you give, that is what you receive. If you give life, life will be given to you. If you give yourself, your being will be given to you in fullness. If you give the ego, the Atman will be given. If you give this nothingness of a personality, the supreme Person will be given. If you give this mortal body, the immortal body will be given. Whatever is given is received. And what do we have that is worthy to give? We have a mortal body; we have a false ego, an idea that “I am something.” That is all. If we give these, then what is truly ours—authentic, real—returns. What is truly our body, deathless, comes to us. Therefore remember well this sixth sutra of Yoga: giving is receiving; disappearing is being. For here the drop also gives to the ocean. But watch what happens when a drop gives itself to the ocean. The moment the drop gives itself to the ocean, the ocean is given to the drop; instantly the drop becomes the ocean. Kabir has said—an extraordinary utterance: “Seeking and seeking, O friend, Kabir was lost… the drop merged into the ocean—where now shall I find the drop?” And then, a few days later, he wrote another verse and said to his friends, “Erase the first; there is a mistake in it.” The first was: “Seeking and seeking, O friend, Kabir was lost; The drop merged into the ocean—where shall I seek it now?” Then he wrote the second—reversing the point: “Cancel the first; there was a mistake. The truth is: ‘Seeking and seeking, O friend, Kabir was lost; The ocean merged into the drop—where shall I seek it now?’” He said, “Erase that earlier thing—there was some mistake in it: the drop fell into the ocean. Now I tell you the more real thing—the ocean has fallen into the drop. If the drop had fallen into the ocean, we could still draw it out. Now the ocean has fallen into the drop—where will you draw that out from?” When the drop falls into the ocean, from the drop’s side it appears that the drop is falling into the ocean; but when it has fallen, then the drop realizes: it is the ocean that has fallen into me. When the person loses himself, until that moment it seems, “I am losing myself.” The moment he loses, he realizes, “This is the meeting with Paramatma. I have not lost—I have gained.” Giving becomes attainment, offering becomes receiving, losing becomes finding, death becomes the door to life. And this giving-and-taking is going on every moment. If only it could be balanced—if we could give as much as we get—life becomes filled with God. Hence I have emphasized the sixth sutra. And I call that person religious whose give-and-take is equal at every moment. How much have you received from the sun—have you ever given thanks? How much have you received from the sky—have you ever lifted your eyes in gratitude? How much have you received from flowers—have you ever paused by them for two moments to express your thanks? No. Wherever we are not receiving, we certainly go to complain; but wherever the infinite is pouring upon us, there is not even gratitude—let alone giving. One small story, and I will complete this point. Tomorrow we shall speak of the next sutra. A young monk of Buddha attained enlightenment. Buddha said to him, “Now that you have attained, go and give people the news—the way, the path, the gate through which you entered. Go and tell people of the temple where the anthems of bliss are resounding.” The monk said, “I was only awaiting your permission. I shall go today itself. What I have received, I will share.” Buddha asked, “Where will you go? In which direction?” The monk—his name was Purna—said, “There is a part of Bihar, a dry land. I will go there. No one has brought your news there yet.” Buddha said, “Do not go there. I shall not advise you to go. The people there are not good—that is why no one has gone there yet.” Purna said, “Where people are good, there is no need for me to go! Kindly give me permission to go there.” Buddha said, “I will ask you three questions—then you may go. First: the people there are wicked, harsh, uncultured. If they abuse you, what will happen in your mind?” Purna said, “You know well what will happen—what would happen in your mind. I will feel only this: how good they are—they only abuse; they do not beat. They could have beaten.” Buddha said, “Purna, understand: they will beat you too, because they are very bad—and they will beat you. When they beat you, what will happen in your mind?” Purna replied, “Exactly what would happen in your mind. I will give thanks that by the Lord’s grace I have come among such good people that they only beat—they do not kill. They could have killed.” Buddha said, “One last question, Purna: if they kill you—then, in the final moment, what will be your last thought?” Purna said, “You ask needlessly—you know it well: exactly what would happen in your mind. With folded hands, giving thanks, I will go—good people! They freed me from a life where some mistake could still happen.” Purna said, “If I had lived, mistakes might still have happened. Good people—they freed me from life. So I shall depart in gratitude.” Buddha said, “You have become a religious man; now you can go anywhere. Now for you the whole earth is heaven, every home a temple, and every eye the eye of God.” Yoga lays the foundation for such a vision. We shall talk of the remaining sutras tomorrow. Some questions have come; some more will come by tomorrow. At the end we will take them all together. I am grateful for the love with which you have listened to my words. Two notices for the morning: those friends who wish to come for meditation—remember, who wish to do—should come in the morning. Do not come to watch. By watching, nothing is known; only by doing is it known. And watching disturbs those who are doing. Those who come should come bathed, and come and sit here silently—do not use even a single word—so that the atmosphere here can become helpful and friendly to entering meditation. You have listened to my words with such love; I am obliged. And in the end I bow to the Lord seated within each of you. Kindly accept my salutations.
Osho's Commentary
Yoga’s fifth sutra is: That which is in the atom is also in the vast. That which is in the tiniest is also in the immensity. What is most subtle in the subtle is present in the greatest of the great. What is in the drop is in the ocean.
Yoga has proclaimed this from the very beginning, but science has only just now begun to support it. No one had imagined that within the atom such energy, such power could be found, that so much would be hidden in the infinitesimal, that in a seeming nothing the explosion of the all could take place. The splitting of the atom has rendered scientific this insight of Yoga. The atom cannot even be seen by the naked eye; yet in that which is unseen a vast power is stored. It can explode. The atom of the Atman within a person cannot be seen either, but in it an immense energy lies concealed and the explosion of the Paramatma can happen. Yoga’s declaration—that the vastest is present in the tiniest, that in every particle the divine is present—has precisely this meaning.
Why did Yoga lay such emphasis on this sutra?
Firstly, because it is true. And secondly, because once you remember that the ultimate is hidden in the atom, a path opens for you to remember your own soul-force. There is no reason for anyone to feel small. There is no reason even for the smallest to feel small. And the contrary also must be understood: the greatest has no reason to be puffed up with ego, for what he has, the most minute also has. If the ocean becomes egoistic it is mad, because what the ocean has, a tiny drop also has. The least has no reason to feel inferior; the greatest has no reason to be filled with pride. Neither inferiority nor superiority has any meaning. From this sutra, this is the inevitable conclusion.
Man wastes his life in only two fixations. Either he is afflicted by a sense of inferiority—an inferiority complex. Alfred Adler has now put this phrase on everyone’s tongue: inferiority complex. Either a person suffers from inferiority and continually feels, “I am nothing, a mere nothing.” As you must have heard Omar Khayyam’s famous line: dust unto dust. Dust returns to dust—there is nothing more.
If inferiority seizes a person, a deep inner disease takes hold. If someone begins to live as though nothing is, life itself becomes almost impossible—he dies while still alive. Very few are alive until the day they die; most die long before. Often it happens they are buried at seventy, but death has come much earlier. Between dying and being buried there is a gap of thirty, forty, even fifty years.
The day inferiority grips you within… and if, seeing this vast existence all around, you allow yourself to compare, inferiority will seize you. What, after all, is man’s situation? Nothing at all. A straw upon the waves of the sea. No direction, no strength. If such inferiority takes hold of the mind, life turns lifeless while still alive—ashes. The ember goes dim. And when one’s own inner flame goes out, then what will you do with the light of the suns? It may be there, but it has no meaning for you.
It is essential to remember that the vast is within the person. It is essential to remember that the infinite is within the person. It is essential to remember that Paramatma is within the person—so that one does not fall into inferiority.
And the strange thing is, to erase inferiority people fall into fantasies of superiority—the superiority complex! To repress the feeling of inferiority one begins to take measures. Feeling inferior within, one starts accumulating wealth—to show the world and convince oneself: “No, I am not nothing; I am much.” The inferiority complex makes one run; one climbs thrones so that standing upon them one can announce, “Who says I am nothing? I am someone!” Inferiority turns into a race for superiority. Hence those who are madly running to be superior are the very ones afflicted within by inferiority.
Adler has said astonishing things—meaningful things. He said, those who often come first in the race are the ones who limped in childhood. Those who become very skilled in music are often the ones who heard a little less in childhood. Those who become presidents and prime ministers are frequently the very ones who had to sit on the back benches at school. That wound of inferiority—they set out to prove to the world, “We are something—we shall show you!”
So if a politician is afflicted with inferiority, do not be surprised. A worm gnaws within, whispering, “I am nothing.” It hurts the mind, makes one restless, drives one on.
When Lenin sat on a chair his feet did not reach the floor. The upper part of his body was big and his legs were short; ordinarily, seated, his feet would not touch the ground. Hitler was a man of very ordinary intelligence, and in the army a common soldier of ordinary rank—thrown out even from there as unfit and incompetent. Stalin was a cobbler’s son, and Lincoln too was a cobbler’s son.
If we peep behind the lives of the world’s politicians, we shall be amazed. Somewhere in childhood an inferiority wound became their race. They ran neurotically; they could not rest until they had climbed some peak. Having climbed, they showed the world, “We are something,” but they showed nothing to themselves. That is why all positions, all wealth, all fame, finally prove futile. When one is standing upon a throne, he finds it is still the same “I” that is standing. The throne has been attained, but I am still I—and the worm of inferiority keeps eating. Hence even the greatest office brings no fulfillment; the race for a greater office continues.
When someone said to Alexander, “I have heard you will conquer the whole world. But have you ever thought—when you have conquered the world, then what will you do? For there is only one world!”—I have heard that Alexander became very sad and said, “This I never thought. You speak rightly: if I conquer the whole world, then what will I do? Where is another world?” For even after conquering the world, there is no escape from the inferiority that grips the mind. Nor would a second world help.
The inferiority complex becomes inverted—standing on its head—and turns into the superiority complex.
So when you see a man strutting stiffly down the road, have compassion—he is afflicted with inferiority. If someone, slightly jostled, erupts, “Don’t you know who I am?”—poor fellow, he suffers from inferiority. The one who gets enraged over trifles, whose ego is bruised over the smallest things, who, if people laugh on the street, imagines they are laughing at him—know that he is afflicted by inferiority. This pain throws him into the mad race to be superior. Inferiority is a disease; superiority is the grand disease taken to suppress the first. And many times the medicine proves more dangerous than the illness; suppressed illnesses become even more dangerous.
Yoga therefore reminds you of a second thing. It says: even if Paramatma is somewhere, let Him not fall into ego either, “I am something,” for what He has, a grain of dust also has. In one direction, therefore, a dust mote need not be seized by inferiority; and in the other direction, let not Paramatma be seized by superiority. Only one who is free of both inferiority and superiority attains equanimity. This declaration of Yoga is an effort to free man of his deep psychological disease. It is not merely an effort to remove a mental illness; it is also the truth. The truth is this: neither has the small any cause to weep, nor has the great any cause to strut. Here what appears very big and what appears very small—each carries the same wealth.
Jesus tells a small story.
One day a very rich man hired some laborers for his garden in the morning. At noon some more came to him and said, “Give us work too.” He set them to work as well. As the afternoon waned, others came, “Give us work.” He hired them too. And when evening was almost upon them, even then some laborers came, and he set them also to work.
When the sun had set and the day’s wages were distributed, he gave everyone the same wage. Those who had come in the morning stood there angry. They said, “This is injustice! We have worked since morning. Some came at noon, some after noon, and some came just when we had finished the work. To all, the same wage—this is injustice!” The rich man said, “What I have given you—was it less than your work?” They said, “No, for our work it is much.” “Then,” said the rich man, “know this: In the kingdom of God none is ahead and none is behind, all are equal.”
This is what Yoga is saying. It says that a dust grain has no cause to be miserable, and even Paramatma has no cause to be filled with ego. In this play of life none is ahead, none behind; none great, none small. Yoga shows the vast in the minute and the minute in the vast. It shows the ocean in the drop and the drop in the ocean.
And this is the truth, as I said—because science now speaks of astonishing things.
When Rutherford first broke open the family of the atom, a very strange fact came to light: even the least of atoms is exactly like the solar systems of great suns. In an atom—the smallest atom—there is a nucleus at the center, and whirling around it is an electron. That electron circles the nucleus. Its motion is just like the motion of the earth, Mars, Jupiter and the planets around the sun. This tiny atom moves in the same way. And the energy hidden in its nucleus is of the same quality as the energy of the sun. As if, in a very small form, a solar family is sitting inside the atom. The difference is only of quantity; there is no difference of quality.
Thus science has begun to say what Yoga long ago declared—we all remember the old saying: in the egg is the Brahmand. Scientists like Rutherford and his companions say: the macrocosm in the microcosm. That vast cosmos is wholly present within the minute microcosm. The cosmos, the Brahmand, resides in the tiny egg—so small it cannot be seen; it is only inferred, known only by inference that it exists, that it spins. In something so small, all that appears so immense is present as a tiny picture, a small print.
Understand it like this: the only difference is of magnitude. It is as when we say, the difference between two and four is the same as between twenty and forty. Between two hundred and four hundred the same difference; between twenty million and forty million the same difference. The proportion between two and four is the very same proportion between twenty million and forty million—the same proportion. The number is extended, but the ratio remains one. Exactly so: the proportion of the tiniest is the proportion of the vastest.
Understanding this truth, remember two things: inferiority is madness; superiority is greater madness. Understand rightly: to think yourself nothing is madness; to think yourself very great is also madness.
Yoga says: be what you are—and in that there is no place for being inferior or superior. Know only that you are; that is enough.
Its other meaning is: do not weigh yourself at all. Don’t compare. There is no point. Comparison has no meaning. Whether two and four compare with twenty and forty or with twenty million and forty million, it makes no difference. In comparison there is no difference; both are equal. The proportion is equal; therefore comparison is futile.
Hence Yoga says: do not compare the drop with the ocean, for the drop is a small ocean. And do not allow the ocean to become arrogant, for the ocean is only the drop spread out. The differences are only of expanse.
Scientists now think that soon—perhaps before this century is over—we shall be able to contract and expand things.
I have heard a story of the twenty-first century. A man alights at a station. He seems to have no luggage—only a matchbox placed near his bench. He calls out loudly, “Ten or twenty porters—come!” The fellow passengers say, “You don’t seem to have any luggage. What will you do with ten or twenty porters?” The man says, “My luggage is in that matchbox.” They say, “But why would twenty-five porters carry a matchbox? You carry it yourself!” The man opens the box and shows them—a car lies within the box. “A toy car,” they say, “for children. Pick it up yourself.” The man replies, “It is not a toy. The car has simply been condensed so that it can travel in a small space. We shall inflate it back.”
Just as a balloon, when emptied, shrinks, and when filled with air, expands—scientists say iron too can be condensed, like cotton is pressed, and then expanded again. For everything is a congregation of atoms, and between atoms there is much space; that space can be altered, made smaller or larger. It may become possible to bring an entire train into a small matchbox and then expand it back again.
When such a day comes—the experiments have been done; large-scale use will come in time—what meaning remains in comparing drop and ocean? The ocean can be compressed into a drop; the drop can be expanded into an ocean. The individual can be expanded into Paramatma; Paramatma can be condensed into the individual. In truth it is already so. Yoga has been saying for long that in things there is only a difference of expanse—no other difference. Big and small are only spreadings. Small and large are only spreadings.
This is the fifth sutra—and it is important. Once this vision becomes clear, where will your inferiority stand? Where will your superiority stand? Where will you put them? For what will you carry that burden? You will fling it away and walk your path. Then, if someone struts, you will also laugh; if someone wags his tail in inferiority, you will also laugh. You will tell the tail-wagger, “Do not waste your effort.” You will tell the strutter, “You are needlessly torturing your body—no need.”
Everything is abiding in its being. Everything is in its own nature. And every nature is incomparable; comparison has no meaning, no purpose.
The sixth sutra of Yoga: It is not that the vast is only the giver and the small only the receiver, the beggar—no.
Yoga’s sixth sutra is: giving and receiving, being a beggar and being an emperor—these dwell together in everyone. Here, the drop gives to the ocean and receives from the ocean. Here, the small gives to the vast, and the vast pours itself into the small. Here, giving and taking move in complete balance.
A French scientist, Astron, has made a small instrument. And this instrument will prove revolutionary in the direction of Yoga. Astron’s device registers the energy that, moment to moment, is being absorbed from the infinite into a person—it reports how much is entering. Stand near that instrument and it shows how much power is coming into you from all around the cosmos—how much, from moment to moment. As if, continually, from infinite pathways, energy is showering upon you and entering through every pore.
A delightful fact: when you are joyful, more energy enters; when you are unhappy, less enters. Astron’s instrument is precious. If you are sad, your doors are closed, contracted; less energy enters. You have known too that sorrow contracts. Hence a sorrowful man says, “Don’t speak to me. Don’t disturb me. Let me sit in a corner. Let me sleep. Let me die.” He shuts the door, darkens the room. The unhappy man contracts; the joyous man wants to share. If a joyous man is alone he feels restless—he runs to someone to give the news of his joy.
We all know: when Buddha was unhappy he went into the forest; when he became blissful he returned to the village. When Mahavira was unhappy he went into the forest; when he became blissful he returned to the village. If someone asks why a sorrowful man goes to the forest—the answer is: he contracts, he fears meeting even people. The joyous man runs like a river’s current—he wants to distribute. Joy longs to be shared; joy is a sharing. Without sharing, joy is not satisfied. Sorrow wants to shrink. Therefore the sorrowful man is left alone. The joyous man finds many friends. The sorrowful man becomes an island. No one wishes to stand by him; nor does he wish anyone to stand by him. The joyous man becomes a continent. The sorrowful man becomes a small isle—closed within himself, isolated.
Astron’s instrument shows that when a sorrowful man stands before it, less of the vast energy rains upon him; when a joyous man stands there, the vast begins to enter him from all sides, as if dams have broken and energy pours in from every direction.
Yoga has been saying this a long time. It says: man too has doors and windows, and it is in your hands whether you keep them open for Paramatma—or closed.
Leibniz was a great mathematician. He used to say: man is a monod. Monod—his word—means windowless; a house without windows and doors, closed. In this closed house, if you stretch out your hand to reach the other, you only touch your own walls. No one reaches another; everyone is closed within himself.
Ordinarily a sorrowful man is a monod. It seems Leibniz must have been a sorrowful man—or those he knew and thought about were sorrowful. He perhaps never saw a yogi. For a yogi is the very opposite. If we were to coin a word against monod—there is none—we would have to say of a yogi: wall-less. Not merely windowed and doored—the whole house becomes a door. He even removes the walls and stands under the open sky. He breaks everything, so that the vast showers directly into him. Not only showers—it becomes joined. That is why Yoga emphasizes peace, bliss, silence, health.
Astron’s instrument records not only that energy comes from outside—it also registers that moment to moment a response is going out from the person too; he is also releasing waves of energy. We are not only taking from Paramatma; we are also giving. Do not think that if Paramatma were not, you could still be. The reverse is also true: if you were not, Paramatma would also not be. Do not think the ocean only gives water to the clouds. Remember, the clouds return all the water to the ocean through the rivers. The ocean not only gives, it also receives. And the rivers not only receive, they also give. And the clouds not only take, they also give. Wherever there is taking, there is giving; and the two are equal. If this accounting is not right, mistakes happen and life becomes entangled.
Therefore this sixth sutra of Yoga must be understood rightly.
I would call that man a yogi who gives as much as he takes and keeps his accounts always settled. When Kabir could say at the moment of death, “As it was, so I have returned the cloth,” it has meaning. It means: all give-and-take is balanced. In my ledger nothing remains to pay, nothing remains to receive. The accounts are complete—I go. There is no indebtedness. It is not that I only took and did not give.
We all take; we do not give, we do not share. And we are miserly even in taking—so in giving we will certainly be miserly. We are not open-hearted even in receiving; even there we keep the doors closed, unknowingly. And in giving—great difficulty.
As I said, in joy one receives more; likewise in joy one gives more. In silence one receives more; in silence one gives more.
In truth, when someone is utterly still and silent, he becomes like the echo-points in the mountains. You call out—and the mountain returns your voice. In an empty temple if you speak, it resounds and showers back upon you. In the empty, silent, meditative person whatever comes in is instantly responded to, and instantly echoing, returns. He is receiving and giving every moment. Between taking and giving there is no gap—like a wave that comes to the shore and immediately returns. The seashore always stands discharged—whatever it takes, it returns; whatsoever it receives, it gives back.
As I said, Astron’s device even catches how much energy is falling around you and how many energy-waves are going outward from you.
From the unhappy man very little goes outward; he stands clutching himself. From the anxious man very little goes outward; his power turns into a vortex within and begins to whirl—like whirlpools in water. The anxious man’s energy whirls within; he begins to think the same thoughts he has thought a thousand times. He chews the cud like a buffalo. A buffalo at least has a use for chewing: she eats in one go and then chews at leisure. The anxious man’s chewing is meaningless; it has no point. He thinks the same thing a hundred thousand times. What is the meaning? It means a diseased whirl has formed within him. It is beyond his control—he is obsessed. He even thinks, “What useless things I am thinking!”—but he goes on thinking. The energy stops going out; it only circles within. Such a man will become sick—in a spiritual sense, sick.
Energy must come in, and it must go out. Inside, the balance must always be equal—give-and-take kept even. Then the accounts between the person and Paramatma become impossible to calculate—they become direct relations. Then it is not that the person is at the feet and God sits on the head. Not so. Then the person becomes Paramatma and Paramatma becomes the person. God becomes devotee and the devotee becomes God. The differences and distances disappear, for no account remains. God too cannot insist, because what He took has been given back—nothing is left pending.
In sorrow, in restlessness, in anxiety, we neither give nor receive—we shrink and shut down, and the life-sources dry up. It is as if a well were to declare, “I shall no longer take water from the ocean; I am closing my springs,” and say to the people, “Do not lower your pitchers; I shall give no more.” Naturally, the one who stops taking will also stop giving, else he will soon dry up. And the one who stops giving will have to stop taking, otherwise he will burst—he cannot live. Both things must be done together.
But remember: the well that says to the ocean, “I will not take,” and says to the villagers, “I will not give”—that well will only rot, become foul, stink. Its freshness will be lost, its life gone.
We have all become such wells. In the vision of Yoga, we are putrefying wells; not living wells that take from the ocean and return to the ocean. Those who come with their pitchers are instruments of the ocean; they will carry it back to the ocean. And the well will become ever more fresh.
It is Yoga’s wonder-filled assertion that the more one takes and the more one gives, the more alive he becomes—the more living. The one who takes in great measure and returns in equal measure becomes a center of life-energy. Such thrill, such dance, such condensed life will manifest in him.
Krishna or Buddha or Mahavira or Christ—all those who seem filled with such immense life-energy—what is the reason? There is only one reason: no miserliness in receiving, no miserliness in giving. They receive on a vast scale and give on the same vast scale.
Let me share a saying of Jesus. Jesus is among those few great yogis who walked the earth and left precious sutras.
Jesus said: To him who saves, it shall be taken away; from him who has little, even that shall be taken away; and to him who has much, much shall be given.
How contrary it sounds! We would protest: what injustice! Give to the one who has nothing. Why give to the one who has a lot? He can do without. But Jesus speaks of a deeper law. He is saying: the one who has more energy will be given more; the one who has little will be given little. The reason for little is precisely that the one who has little has his doors closed—that is why he has little. He has been miserly in giving; therefore he became exhausted in receiving and cannot take.
I have heard a story: a villager read in a book that money attracts money. He had one rupee—he was poor. He thought, if money attracts money, I should go where money is, place my rupee there, and it will pull other rupees.
He went to the city, to a moneylender’s shop. In the evening they were counting coins; he sat on the steps outside and began to jingle his rupee. For a long time he jingled, but no rupee came. He thought, perhaps the distance is too great. He threw his rupee upon the stacks of coins. He waited a while for his rupee to bring back others—but it did not. He said to the moneylender, “That book was wrong. Return my rupee.”
The moneylender asked, “What book?”
He said, “I read in a book that money attracts money.”
The moneylender replied, “The book was right. The rupees have attracted your rupee. Go home now. Foolish man, will one rupee pull so many rupees? The book was right—the rupees pulled the rupee. Now go home, and never again say the book was wrong.”
And the peasant never again said the book was wrong, because the book had proven right.
Jesus speaks of this wondrous law: if you wish to be filled by the vast, become a giver of the vast. Share—and you will receive. Hoard—and it will be taken away. Save—and you will lose. Lose—and you will attain. The sutras sound inverted, but Yoga understands their reason. The reason is this: the more we empty ourselves, the more we make room for the vast to descend. The more the vast descends, the more we are filled with the joy of emptying, of pouring out—and we overflow.
This sixth sutra says that here no one is only a giver and no one is only a receiver. Here none is a beggar alone and none an emperor alone. The one who wants to be an emperor alone will be in trouble; the one who wants to be a beggar alone will also be in trouble. Here the beggar and the emperor dwell in one and the same person. With one hand we must give, with the other we must take. And one hand will be able to take only as much as the other hand has given; the other hand will be able to give only as much as the first hand has received.
If only this enters our understanding, the whole design of our life will change. Then we will not become grabbers of things. The more one clutches, the poorer he remains. The harder one clutches, the more wretched he becomes. One must learn the art of letting go, the art of giving—because the art of giving is the path of receiving. The emptier we are, the more capable and worthy we become to receive. Those who are empty will be filled. Those already full, holding, clutching, will remain empty. Lakes become full; mountains remain empty. Rain falls on the mountains too, but water does not stay there—they are already full of themselves. Lakes are empty; even if it does not rain upon them, no matter—the waters of the mountains flow into them and fill them. Lakes are empty; that is their secret.
Remain empty in every way—and you will keep filling. And if you remain full of yourself in every way—you will keep emptying. These are two sides of the same coin. And if someone only keeps asking from God, then remember: there can be no relationship with Paramatma. We have no relationship because our temples have become prayer-halls where we only ask—we go as petitioners. Our prayers become false because they are the prayers of beggars who go only to demand.
Remember: whenever we go only to ask, we are not giving value to Paramatma; we are giving value to what we want.
A man came to me and said, “I did not believe in God before, but now I have begun to.” I asked, “Has some wish of yours been fulfilled?” He said, “How did you know?” I replied, “I do not see in your face any sign that you have journeyed even a little toward God. Surely some desire has been fulfilled.” He said, “Exactly. My son could not get a job. I prayed, and I even gave an ultimatum to God—that if within one month the job was not found, then know that I will never believe again. The job came. Now I believe firmly.”
For this man, the boy’s job is more valuable than God. If his son loses his job, God will also become unemployed—so far as he is concerned. God too will be useless. He will kick the throne: “Get off—enough!” We go to God only with prayers—demands.
Remember: the one who goes to God with an offering—only his prayers have meaning. The one who goes to give is the one who is joined. It is not that the giver does not receive—he receives immensely! But it is the giver who receives. From the one who begs, even what is near is taken away.
Hence Jesus says: from him who has little, even that will be taken.
As soon as someone is ready to give, he becomes worthy to receive—for to give, the doors of the heart must be opened. Through those very doors, the gift comes in. The one who fears giving must keep his doors shut—lest a thief come, lest a beggar demand. He must keep all windows and doors closed; from inside the house he prays, “Give me this, give me that.” The doors are shut; even if Paramatma comes to the threshold to give, he will not open—fearing it may be a beggar.
And I have heard, Paramatma often plays this joke—He comes to the door in the guise of a beggar. Then the test becomes clear: is the man worthy to receive? He who is not yet capable of giving cannot be worthy of receiving.
By His nature, God cannot ask you for money; by His nature, Paramatma cannot ask you for a house. For the house is not yours—you will not be tomorrow, and the house will be. And wealth is not you—it is in your hand today, in another’s hand tomorrow. Paramatma can ask only one thing—you. You alone are worthy to be asked for.
Therefore Yoga says: the one who is ready to give himself becomes worthy of receiving all. If we can give ourselves, if we can let go, if we can say, “I consent—take me…”
There is a small remembrance from the life of Vivekananda. When Vivekananda’s father died, the house fell into great poverty; food was so scarce that not even enough for both mother and son. So Vivekananda told his mother, “Today I am invited to a friend’s house; I shall eat there”—there was no invitation, and hardly any friend. He would wander the streets hungry and return—otherwise the mother would feed the son and herself go hungry. He would come home hungry, laughing, saying, “Today I ate splendidly—what dishes there were!” He would describe delicacies that were neither cooked anywhere nor eaten—having roamed hungry, just so that his mother might eat.
Ramakrishna came to know of it and said, “What kind of madman are you? Why don’t you tell God? All will be arranged.” Vivekananda said, “To drag matters of eating and drinking before God would be a little too ordinary.” Even so, Ramakrishna said, “Go once and ask!” He sent Vivekananda into the temple. An hour passed, then an hour and a half—he came out dancing, delighted. Ramakrishna asked, “You got it, didn’t you? You asked, didn’t you?” Vivekananda said, “What?” Ramakrishna said, “I told you to place your request. Why are you so overjoyed?” Vivekananda replied, “I forgot.”
It happened many times. Ramakrishna would send him in; Vivekananda would come out, and when asked, “What?” he would say, “What?” Ramakrishna said, “Are you mad? You go in with a firm vow.” Vivekananda said, “When I go in, the very thought that I should ask from God does not remain. A longing arises to give myself. And when I give myself, such joy, such joy—what hunger, what thirst, what beggar, what petitioner!”
He could not ask; it was not possible.
To this day no truly religious man has ever asked anything from God. Those who have asked should understand clearly—religion is not yet their concern. The religious have given.
Jesus was crucified. The night before, in the garden of Gethsemane, his friends said, “Ask your Father—ask your God! Ask for what you want!” Jesus only smiled. Morning came—the time for the cross. His companions again and again urged him, “Why don’t you ask your God to stop this?” Jesus smiled. Then he was hung upon the cross; nails were driven through his hands. At one moment a cry escaped his lips—and he was offered the cross. Then this cross was no longer a cross—it became the coat of God. Now he could give himself. He was hung upon the cross. Hanging on the cross became a symbol—a wondrous symbol, that those who wish to reach God need the courage to hang their ego, their “I,” upon the cross entirely.
But man is dishonest; there is no end to his dishonesty. Christian priests roam the earth with golden crosses dangling from their necks! One could ask: are crosses made of gold? And one could ask: is the neck hung upon a cross—or are crosses hung upon the neck? Man is such a deceiver. Jesus was hung upon a cross; his followers hang a small cross upon their necks! Even the cross can be turned into an ornament—man is that dishonest. He forgets the very message of giving, of dissolving. He remembers only the message of getting, getting.
Yoga says: in the proportion you give, in that proportion you receive. And what you give, that is what you receive. If you give life, life will be given to you. If you give yourself, your being will be given to you in fullness. If you give the ego, the Atman will be given. If you give this nothingness of a personality, the supreme Person will be given. If you give this mortal body, the immortal body will be given. Whatever is given is received.
And what do we have that is worthy to give? We have a mortal body; we have a false ego, an idea that “I am something.” That is all. If we give these, then what is truly ours—authentic, real—returns. What is truly our body, deathless, comes to us.
Therefore remember well this sixth sutra of Yoga: giving is receiving; disappearing is being. For here the drop also gives to the ocean.
But watch what happens when a drop gives itself to the ocean. The moment the drop gives itself to the ocean, the ocean is given to the drop; instantly the drop becomes the ocean.
Kabir has said—an extraordinary utterance: “Seeking and seeking, O friend, Kabir was lost… the drop merged into the ocean—where now shall I find the drop?” And then, a few days later, he wrote another verse and said to his friends, “Erase the first; there is a mistake in it.” The first was:
“Seeking and seeking, O friend, Kabir was lost;
The drop merged into the ocean—where shall I seek it now?”
Then he wrote the second—reversing the point: “Cancel the first; there was a mistake. The truth is:
‘Seeking and seeking, O friend, Kabir was lost;
The ocean merged into the drop—where shall I seek it now?’”
He said, “Erase that earlier thing—there was some mistake in it: the drop fell into the ocean. Now I tell you the more real thing—the ocean has fallen into the drop. If the drop had fallen into the ocean, we could still draw it out. Now the ocean has fallen into the drop—where will you draw that out from?”
When the drop falls into the ocean, from the drop’s side it appears that the drop is falling into the ocean; but when it has fallen, then the drop realizes: it is the ocean that has fallen into me. When the person loses himself, until that moment it seems, “I am losing myself.” The moment he loses, he realizes, “This is the meeting with Paramatma. I have not lost—I have gained.” Giving becomes attainment, offering becomes receiving, losing becomes finding, death becomes the door to life.
And this giving-and-taking is going on every moment. If only it could be balanced—if we could give as much as we get—life becomes filled with God. Hence I have emphasized the sixth sutra. And I call that person religious whose give-and-take is equal at every moment.
How much have you received from the sun—have you ever given thanks? How much have you received from the sky—have you ever lifted your eyes in gratitude? How much have you received from flowers—have you ever paused by them for two moments to express your thanks?
No. Wherever we are not receiving, we certainly go to complain; but wherever the infinite is pouring upon us, there is not even gratitude—let alone giving.
One small story, and I will complete this point. Tomorrow we shall speak of the next sutra.
A young monk of Buddha attained enlightenment. Buddha said to him, “Now that you have attained, go and give people the news—the way, the path, the gate through which you entered. Go and tell people of the temple where the anthems of bliss are resounding.”
The monk said, “I was only awaiting your permission. I shall go today itself. What I have received, I will share.”
Buddha asked, “Where will you go? In which direction?”
The monk—his name was Purna—said, “There is a part of Bihar, a dry land. I will go there. No one has brought your news there yet.”
Buddha said, “Do not go there. I shall not advise you to go. The people there are not good—that is why no one has gone there yet.”
Purna said, “Where people are good, there is no need for me to go! Kindly give me permission to go there.”
Buddha said, “I will ask you three questions—then you may go. First: the people there are wicked, harsh, uncultured. If they abuse you, what will happen in your mind?”
Purna said, “You know well what will happen—what would happen in your mind. I will feel only this: how good they are—they only abuse; they do not beat. They could have beaten.”
Buddha said, “Purna, understand: they will beat you too, because they are very bad—and they will beat you. When they beat you, what will happen in your mind?”
Purna replied, “Exactly what would happen in your mind. I will give thanks that by the Lord’s grace I have come among such good people that they only beat—they do not kill. They could have killed.”
Buddha said, “One last question, Purna: if they kill you—then, in the final moment, what will be your last thought?”
Purna said, “You ask needlessly—you know it well: exactly what would happen in your mind. With folded hands, giving thanks, I will go—good people! They freed me from a life where some mistake could still happen.”
Purna said, “If I had lived, mistakes might still have happened. Good people—they freed me from life. So I shall depart in gratitude.”
Buddha said, “You have become a religious man; now you can go anywhere. Now for you the whole earth is heaven, every home a temple, and every eye the eye of God.”
Yoga lays the foundation for such a vision.
We shall talk of the remaining sutras tomorrow.
Some questions have come; some more will come by tomorrow. At the end we will take them all together.
I am grateful for the love with which you have listened to my words. Two notices for the morning: those friends who wish to come for meditation—remember, who wish to do—should come in the morning. Do not come to watch. By watching, nothing is known; only by doing is it known. And watching disturbs those who are doing. Those who come should come bathed, and come and sit here silently—do not use even a single word—so that the atmosphere here can become helpful and friendly to entering meditation.
You have listened to my words with such love; I am obliged. And in the end I bow to the Lord seated within each of you. Kindly accept my salutations.